Ashes to Ashes
by punkydiva17
Summary: Based on the Brainstorm "Talking To The Walls". After years of holding the weight of the world on his shoulders, it's all come down on John Cena.
1. Our Solemn Hour

The Our Mother of Heavenly Sorrow Church in Tampa, Florida, was bustling for all the wrong reasons on a blustery Friday morning in December. It was a regal, two storey place, an old-fashioned white brick building with stained glass windows and a beautiful white marble cross on the rooftop. It had a beautiful garden, overflowing and rife with petunias, roses and chrysanthemums and a concrete walkway that led to the front steps, lined with well-polished white stones. Serene, pristine. It seemed to be the perfect place to lay her to rest.

Inside, the carpets were a deep velvety blue, the walls painted a blinding white with the old-fashioned baseboards lining the bottom. Jonathan Felix Anthony Cena, thirty-four, nine-time WWE Champion, was leaned against the enormous oak doorframe, staring into the main worship room. His blue eyes stared past the beautiful oak and red velvet pews, instead focusing on the closed cherry wood casket that rested at the head of the altar. His haggard face was crumpled in despair, every line in his face showing pure exhaustion and age, his vision blurred with hot, stinging tears.

Ahead of him, inside the worship room, past the church pews, people - friends and family, all people he knew, loved and recognized - were lined up at the altar. Each of them walked past the casket, caressing the surface that was adorned with a mixture of teardrops and daffodils. Daffodils had been her favourite flowers. Knowing that, John had made sure that he had drowned out the church with them.

None of this was supposed to happen; it was the last thing on his plan. They were supposed to grow old together, have a bundle of kids. After they watched the kids grow up and ship off, they were going to retire in some pretty condo in Boca Raton, Florida. That was the plan. She had deviated from it. This was the last thing on the agenda.

Her death had left him withered and lost. For the past week, he didn't know what to do, where to go. His mother Carol had invited him to come home with her, back to West Newbury to get his bearings straight, but he didn't want to go home. Home had been with her. He would never feel at home again. John wished that he would vaporize, just disappear. He wanted to follow her to the end of the Earth, where the division between Heaven and Hell began. He wanted join her. But he couldn't do anything, stuck on Earth saying goodbye to the only woman he was sure he could ever love.

At the head of the altar, his best friend Randy Orton turned to face him from his spot in front of her casket, his heavily tattooed arms covered by a see-through white dress shirt. His right arm was draped around the shoulders of his sobbing wife Samantha, a demure brunette who clutched their three-year-old daughter Alannah to her tightly. Randy's expression was pained; there was nothing in the moment he could say that was going to help John through what was going on. It killed him to see his best friend in so much pain.

For as long as he lived, John would never forget where he was when he had gotten the phone call. It was the night after _Survivor Series_ at the Wachovia Center in Philadelphia. He had been giving his farewell address to the WWE universe after being fired by the Nexus. John had been playing to the fans while she was stuck in the middle of the road in the pouring rain, taking her last breaths as the paramedics struggled to keep her breathing. A police officer by the name of Irving Whittaker had been the first responding officer on the scene, and realizing who she was, had gotten in touch with Vince McMahon, who had waited until John came through the curtains to tell him. In a panic, flanked by Randy and Mike Mizanin, John had phoned his brother, a police officer, who confirmed the horrible news.

"She's gone," Officer Dan Cena had told him, his tone drained of any energy. At first, John had hardly reacted to the news, sinking down into the first chair he could find. The sounds around him seemed to fade out, leaving him stuck in a thick zone of silence. He could hardly hear his brother giving him a soft, PG-rated version of the details. Knowing that he was in no condition to do anything, Randy had gone to Vince, who had put John on WWE's private jet and sent him home to Florida to make all the arrangements he needed to make. Mike and Randy had joined him, offering empty words of condolence.

Reality crashed upon John like tidal waves. He was back in the church now, back in the doorframe, watching his world collapse around him. The worst part was he couldn't stop any of it. Hell, he was barely able to react to it.

John jumped, startled, when a hand touched his shoulder. It was a soft, familiar, comforting hand. Turning, his eyes rested on his mother, dressed in a black skirt suit, her greying hair tied back with a beautiful black veiled clip. She dabbed at her eyes with a Kleenex. "I'm so sorry, honey," she whispered. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed from crying. He couldn't speak, only nodding numbly, turning back to the scene unfolding in front of him. Eve Torres, Triple H and Stephanie were all saying their final goodbyes, Stephanie's head bowed demurely at the casket.

On the other side of the church, the choir was singing a sorrowful rendition of "Amazing Grace". The pastor shook hands and offered spiritual words of encouragement to her grieving parents. He hadn't spoken to them since everything had happened. The worst part was that he didn't know what to say to them. He blamed himself. All he could say, all he could think was that he should have been there. In the end, he had failed her in the worst possible way. There was no making this up to her. He had failed himself, he had failed her, he had failed her family. No words of spiritual wisdom would help him get through this. Faith offered him nothing.

He allowed his thoughts to browbeat him, to abuse him as he watched, face stoic, at all the supporters, friends and families that had gathered to say their final goodbyes to a woman who had truly been an angel on Earth.

Outside, it was snowing again, heavy flurries with a wind chill that was cold enough to make Hell freeze over. Christmas was right around the corner. Her Christmas gifts were all sitting underneath the tree. She wouldn't be there to open them with him.

Vince had told him to take all of the time off that he needed to get the grief out. It had killed the WWE Chairman to see his top star so gutted and destroyed by grief. John could tell it killed Vince to give him all that time off, but with being fired by Wade Barrett, at least it had been the perfect out. Returning to the WWE was the last thing on his mind. At the moment, he didn't care if he never came back.

For the past four days, Alannah, Randy and Samantha had been staying with him. They made sure that he ate and drank and slept. Randy had taken John to the doctor's office, getting him sedatives to help him sleep. Sleep was the only place where he felt any peace these days. Since hearing the news, John had taken to drinking whiskey, something Ric Flair had turned him onto after he had won his first WWE Championship in 2005. As much as it killed Randy to watch his best friend fall apart so much, he knew that John was going to have to find his own way out of the pit of darkness. For John's sake, Randy and Samantha had teamed up with John's family to set up all the arrangements, to save people some pain. John had interjected with a few details here and there, like the daffodils.

Today, there was no tough guy exterior, no "Never Give Up", no "Hustle, Loyalty, Respect". Today, he was nothing more than a broken shell of a man, sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand, with no way to get back to the surface. His eyes shifted to the smiling photograph to the left of the casket, her high school graduation photograph. The pastor was looking at him, debating whether or not he should approach John, but John wanted no part of him. He wasn't into the spiritual guidance, the words of wisdom, the prayers. They wouldn't solve anything. In the morning, he was still going to wake up in an empty bed, in an empty house. He had to live with that every day for the rest of his life, and at the moment, he couldn't fathom why the distance was so far to the finish line.

Her books were still on the shelf; everything from the _Twilight Saga_ to _Confessions of a Shopaholic_. Her clothes were still beside his in their dresser in the bedroom. No matter how hard it was to look at all of it, he just couldn't bring himself to box it all up and dispose of it. He couldn't erase her, not now, not ever. It just felt so, very wrong.

His head hurt; he was in dire need of some aspirin. He didn't want to think anymore, but it was all he seemed to be doing for the past few days. Slowly but surely, John was sure that he was driving himself deeper into the throes of madness, teetering ever so closely to the edge before the sleep sedative would kick in and he would find at least a couple hours of peace.

The organ began to play at the altar as everybody made their way out of the church. A wake was going to be held at her parent's house, but John wasn't going to go. He couldn't face it; he didn't want to. The pain ripped a hole in the pit of his stomach, created a haemorrhage in his heart that he just couldn't stop. He stared down at the ring on his finger, and the grief and anxiety began to really overwhelm him. Just what was he going to do now that she was gone? How would he survive?


	2. Awkward Moments

Young, doe-eyed, twenty-five year old Isabella Diana Evans arrived at her Starbucks barista job at promptly seven o'clock on a freezing Tuesday morning in December. Known affectionately to her friends, family and peers as a mixture of "Bella", "Bell" and "Izzie", she was a five-foot-six stunner with shoulder length dishwater blonde hair and slanted bangs. She was beautiful in a girl-next-door kind of way, with an upturned button nose and perfect lips that were always curved into a smile. Freckles were spattered over the upper part of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, giving her that "farm-girl" appearance.

Isabella worked at Starbucks to supplement her income while she went to college. She had one year to go before her music production courses were over. An aspiring singer-songwriter, she wanted to be a versatile, one-woman music machine. With her last year steadily approaching, Isabella was still unsure about just how she was going to get her foot in the door.

Starbucks was a job she enjoyed. Isabella liked to meet people, and she enjoyed the people she worked with. She was fairly well-liked at her job; she kept her head down, didn't gossip and had bundles of energy to spare. Two of her coworkers in the afternoon and evening shifts were even in a band with her, playing jazzy rock. Her drive and ambition consumed her, though it bothered her parents that she hadn't found somebody to settle down with. It bothered Isabella to an extent, but she was the type that could put on a brave front and disguise what she was thinking and feeling. She considered it a gift.

On that morning, Starbucks was relatively empty, with the exception of a person or two sitting at tables and reading the newspaper. Bursting through the front door, Isabella was thankful to be out of the cold, rubbing her hands together for warmth as she made her way around the barista's counter. Pulling the elastic band off of her right wrist, Isabella put her hair up in a high bun and put on her cap. Behind the counter, her coworkers were puttering around, working on mixing smoothies and baking scones for impatient business women who didn't understand that they opened at seven and machines had to warm up. Then again, it was Mari's turn this morning to open up fifteen minutes early and she hadn't.

Once in the back, her co-worker Mari Thornton was hot on her heels. She was a young gossip, a high school dropout. She was a pretty girl with curly, mousy brown hair and big brown eyes that were even wider when she was excited.

"Oh, my God, Bella - he's here again!"

"Of course he's here again," Isabella replied, sliding on her green work apron and tying it tight. She made an effort to keep her voice hushed. "He's been here every morning for the past two years." Mari rolled her eyes at Isabella's disinterested and left her to go flirt with their co-worker Tristan Erickson. Isabella shook her head. Mari was paying too much attention to one man's routine.

Isabella started seeing him around after he had left WWE television. Her brother Trey told her he had been fired by the Nexus and that was the last he'd seen of the guy. Isabella was surprised to hear it; she always thought wrestling was fake. He showed up every morning at opening and sat in the same spot, staying for a few hours to watch the world outside pass him by. Then he would leave. Word around town was that he was very hostile. People made an effort to stay away from him these days. Trey had told her that he used to have the reputation of being easily approachable, and very unflappable. Those days were gone, though.

When he had started coming to Starbucks, he had started out as an immaculate guy. He always wore jerseys and long denim shorts, with his hair trimmed and his face cleanly shaven. Gradually, he quit caring - it was very obvious to Isabella - as his hair became longish and a five o'clock shadow began to spread across his face like a forest fire before it turned into a full-fledged beard. Some of the teenagers liked to whisper and snicker that he looked like a hobo, something that Isabella always found unbelievably cruel. It was obvious he was in pain. Mari and her co-worker Johanna Crandon liked to pass judgment, whispering and gossiping about the man who sat in silence at the back table. Isabella was fascinated by him.

She knew there was something tragic and dark going on inside of his head. It showed in the way he dressed, in the slump in his shoulders. He was a man crushed by staggering defeat. It pained her to watch him fall apart; her empathy meter skyrocketed whenever he came around. This morning, he looked especially lost, twirling something between his fingers. His shoulders were slumped in sorrow. Her father was like that once a year when the anniversary of her grandfather's death approached. Isabella wondered if he had suffered a devastating loss in his family.

Thinking quickly, Isabella grabbed a cranberry lemon scone and put it on a small glass plate. It took her a minute or two of internal debate before she decided to go over to him. He was a big mountain of a man, though he'd lost a little bit of weight in the past two years. Isabella thought he was carved out of stone. She had never seen such a big man up close before. Plus, even with the mountains of facial fuzz grown on his face, she thought he was kind of cute.

When she finally felt courageous, Isabella walked softly towards him. He had his back to her, and she could see ear-bud headphones in his ears. His music was loud, pumping a heavy hip-hop bass. She felt apprehensive to approach him, just because of the rumours about his hostile attitude. She wasn't sure if it was her paranoia, but she could feel the hostility radiating from him like an all-consuming aura.

He sensed her behind him, and he pulled out his ear-buds, turning to face her. There was pain and hostility in his eyes. The emotions were so evident that it almost crippled Isabella.

Her hands were shaking. "Hi there," she said, her voice barely above a squeak. His blue eyes narrowed at her in suspicion. "You come in here every morning, and I thought it would be nice to give you a scone…" She stopped. The rage burned hotly in his eyes. It stopped her mid-sentence. She could smell the whiskey permeating from his every pore. The smell of whiskey reminded Isabella of her grandfather, who drank to forget his stint in Vietnam. It made her stomach churn.

"Do I look like a fucking charity case?" he snarled. His voice was a deep growl, very deep in his throat. Isabella was taken aback by his harsh language. She blushed in embarrassment. An elderly couple three tables over turned their attention to them. Isabella wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole because every set of eyes were on her. They were sensing an impending meltdown.

"No!" she assured him softly, hoping that her soft tone would be enough to diffuse the situation. She was regretting that she approached him. Unfortunately for Isabella Evans, soft words and a kind heart weren't going to be enough to quell a broken and drunken John Cena. "I was just trying to be nice…"

"I don't need your fucking charity!" he shouted. Everybody definitely heard that. Isabella crossed her arms over her chest and sucked in a shaky breath. Her hands shook, rocking the plate in her hand back and forth. "Why can't everybody just mind their own fucking business?"

He stood, knocking his chair back. Isabella jumped, shrieking, startled. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he stormed out into the cold December morning. Isabella's face was bright red.

She stared momentarily at the door and rushed out after him. Everybody was chattering about what had just happened, and Isabella wanted to make sure he knew she didn't mean to offend him. Outside, he was already climbing into his truck, a burgundy Ford F150.

"Hey!" she shouted. He stopped for a second, turning to her. Shaking his head in disgust, he turned to climb into his truck. "What is your problem? I was just trying to be nice!"

"I don't need anybody to be nice - I need to be left alone!" he fired back.

"Yeah, because that certainly seems to be helping you," she fired back. He scowled, a devilish sneer.

"Mind your own fucking business - you don't know me."

"Who would want to?" Isabella regretted it the instant it came out of her mouth. He revved up the truck and she felt her frustration throb. She wondered if he would be back in the morning. Sure, he was a creature of habit, but had she driven him away with a scone? Her shoulders curved in defeat as she went back into Starbucks. He peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing. When she re-entered the store, all eyes were on her and she was sure she could have died of embarrassment. It was hard to ignore the sympathetic stares. Johanna had already cleaned his table and threw out the scone. Isabella went to take five in the back and wait for everyone to leave.

Out back, she saw his truck parked in front of the liquor store across the road. She certainly wasn't going to chase him down for round two. But if he showed up in the morning, she was definitely going to demand an apology.


	3. Fury and Anguish

John slammed his front door shut, shucking off his jacket and kicking off his running shoes. The house smelled like a rough mixture of different whiskeys. His brows were furrowed in anger. He threw his keys down on the sideboard against the front door. His left fist was clenched so tight this his nails left bright white crescent moons in his palm. How dare she treat him like he were some kind of goddamn charity case! He could see it in her face, that stupid look of sympathy in her eyes - it was the same condescending look that Randy and his family gave him before they had given up on him and walked away. The rage in his stomach bubbled over as he thought of his friends and family, all who had left him in his time of need. "Seriously - fuck everybody!" John shouted to no one in particular. His shouts echoed off the walls of his empty home.

He went to the refrigerator, scanning it for something to eat. These days he kept his fridge pretty empty, thanks in large part to the fact that he hardly thought of eating anymore. Every now and then his stomach growled. When that happened, he did something about it. It had been a long time since he'd been grocery shopping, though. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey out of the fridge and took a big swig. "Has to be twelve o'clock somewhere, right?" John murmured to himself, taking another swig. On the marble countertop he saw a blinking red light from his answering machine. It was the same old shit, he knew; he didn't bother to press play. Mom's worried about him, Dad wishes he could just get over it, his brothers are concerned about where his life is headed and Vince McMahon wants his top money maker back on WWE TV. John ripped the plug out of the wall and dropped the machine in the trash under the kitchen sink. With a satisfied smirk, he went to the living room, flopping down on the couch.

What pissed John off the most was the fact that the stupid barista had looked just like _her_. Well, except for the fact that the barista's hair was two shades of a darker blonde and her eyes were brown. He sipped on his whiskey and stared at his fiancée's photograph on top of the TV unit. The picture had been taken the night he had proposed to her at his father's Fourth of July barbecue. Those were the days when life was perfect.

The house he lived in had been her dream house, which made it his dream house. That was the only reason why he refused to sell the house; he just couldn't let it go. Tears burned behind his eyes; why did she have to be so far away? He still felt her everywhere inside of his house, despite the fact she had been gone for two years.

These days, he found the sedatives weren't working as well as they had when his road of grief had started. He found himself dreaming of her all the time, of their past dates, their lovemaking, even of being able to save her while she lay dying on the side of the road. Some nights he was just there, but he couldn't save her. Those nights were the worst. "I never should have left you," John murmured, twirling the neck of the bottle in his big hands. "It's all my fault."

Not since the loss of his grandmother had John ever felt a loss so life-changing and profound. He looked at the fake plastic Christmas tree, still set up just the way it had been the night she died. The presents were still under the tree, covered in dust. He was so desperate to cling to everything that had been hers. Everyone wanted to put pressure on him to get rid of her things from their bedroom, to move, to take down the tree and either give away or open the presents, but John just couldn't do it. John had quit talking to them, angry that they had wanted him to erase her so coldheartedly. He refused to let her go; it was just too bad that people didn't understand.

John sighed. He knew that the barista was just trying to be nice. He'd had no right to be such a dick to her, but he just couldn't help but be defensive around others. Especially around those who didn't know him but still liked to judge. Maybe he had been such a dick because he hadn't realized how much she had looked like her until she had approached him. He hadn't expected it.

"You owe her an apology, you know that right, John?" he mused to himself. He was browbeating himself over the entire scone fiasco. "How could you have not noticed she looked like her? For fuck sakes, you've seen her every day for the past two years!" She had seen him, too, obviously. It was only eventual that she would try and do something nice for him. Places used to give him free stuff all the time and none of them were places he had gone to every day for two years. He groaned. "You're a real dick, John."

He thought about the barista. Everybody had somebody at Christmas, except for John. His mother wanted him to come home, but John wasn't into it. Christmas had lost all of its meaning for him, just like the WWE had. It was nothing Vince had done; John just couldn't forgive himself for being at _Survivor Series_ while she was dying. The last person she had seen were the paramedics who were struggling to keep her alive. It wasn't fair; he should have been there.

Would this Christmas finally be the Christmas that he opened the presents she had bought for him? Doubtful. He couldn't open them. To do that to John would be an acknowledgement of her death. His took another swig of whiskey and sighed deep, allowing his body to sink into his favourite brown leather recliner. His stomach rumbled; he should have taken the scone.

If she had recognized him, she didn't seem to say anything. "How the mighty have fallen," he thought bitterly, finishing the last of the bottle. He was slipping quickly into a drunken state of mind. Today was about to become a blur, and he didn't care. Every day was another foot towards the grave, another day closer to her. He didn't care if he remembered the rest of the journey, he was just trying to sprint towards the destination.


	4. Truce

The sun was barely in the sky when Isabella pulled into the Starbucks parking lot. It was six-thirty in the morning and the town was silent; people were still at home getting ready to go to work. This morning she was in charge of the early morning baking and turning on the coffee machines. Something Johanna, Tristan and Mari _always _forgot about. It was Isabella's biggest complaint about her job.

As hard as she had tried to let it go the night before, Isabella was still angry about her exchange with the former WWE Champion the morning before. She had never been more embarrassed to go into work than she had been after he had reamed her out in front of everybody. Most people understood; everyone has their own little theory about the man who used to so proudly "Rise Above Hate".

"I wish I knew what the hell his problem was," Isabella mused as she came to a complete stop. She was surprised to find John standing in front of the door. He wasn't dressed for winter, wearing long denim shorts, running shoes and a grey hooded sweatshirt. A thick band of brilliant purple stuck out from the bottom. He wore dark sunglasses over his eyes and a Red Sox baseball cap on his head. "Sunglasses at this time…he's probably hung-over," she mused. A part of her was afraid that he was going to become violent with her. There was nobody else around. But she couldn't very well just sit in her car when she had work to do. She squashed the fear quickly, like how a foot would squish a bug.

Grabbing her black woollen purse from the passenger seat, Isabella stepped out of the car and walked to the front door, making an effort to keep herself from making eye contact. Mari and Johanna were going to arrive in fifteen minutes, followed by Tristan at seven on the dot.

"I know you know that this place doesn't open until seven," she said dryly, fishing through her purse for the keys she had absentmindedly thrown inside. John sighed.

"Can we talk for a minute?"

"You going to get violent?"

"No! What the hell kind of guy do you think I am?"

"I don't even know you." The beard, the dishevelled appearance, the smell of whiskey…there was something going on inside of his head that cried for help. Isabella thought it would have been cold of her to ignore the fact and just continue to hold onto her petty little grudge. He was in his own world of hurt, and she was sure that he was clawing through the darkness in hopes of finding a way out. She unlocked the door. "I'm sorry I offended you yesterday," she said with a sigh. "It won't happen again. I promise."

"No. You have no reason to be sorry. I'm the one who's sorry for acting like such a dick. I know it's not an excuse, but…well, this time of the year isn't really easy for me." To her surprise, he extended his hand. "John Cena."

"I know who you are. I saw you in that movie with Ashley Scott…_12 Rounds_." He smirked. "I'm a fan of hers. Loved the _Birds of Prey _series. I'm Isabella Evans, but everyone calls me Bella or Izzie."

"You look more like a Bella," he informed her matter-of-factly. She blushed; he was definitely a charmer. Something flashed in his eyes and he let go of her hand as if her touch burned him. She looked at him, alarmed, before he realized that he had been silent for far too long.

"Don't be offended, but if you would like to come in early for a coffee I'll start the machines up. It'll just take a couple of minutes, but…" John nodded and she trailed off.

"Sure. That's if it's okay. I can wait for the machines to start." Isabella nodded and he followed her into the empty Starbucks. She flicked the light switch and flooded the building with light. Even though he was being nice to her, she still felt like she was walking on eggshells around him. He had a beautiful smile, she noticed, the kind that consumed his entire face and made his blue eyes sparkle. "What can I get for you?"

"The usual," he informed her. She nodded. A double-double with two shots of espresso. She tied up her apron and turned on the machines. "And maybe a cranberry lemon scone, if that's all right." His stomach had been rumbling for hours. He hadn't bothered to go out for dinner the night before. Drinking breakfast, lunch and dinner wasn't healthy, he knew. This morning it had really hit him when he noticed that his face looked a little gaunt and weathered.

"Of course. The scones aren't fresh at the moment, so it's on the house." He nodded, and Isabella was thankful that he wasn't going to make a scene. After all, it was only the two of them in there so far. She started the oven and put the pre-made dough onto the sheets. With the quickness reserved for an experienced, multi-tasking barista, Isabella put a lemon cranberry scone on a plate.

"Let me ask you something, Mr. Cena, and forgive me for being so blunt, but don't you ever miss wrestling?" she asked. She pulled a venti cup out and filled it up with his coffee before adding the two espresso shots. He thanked her quietly as she put the cup and plate down in front of him and sat down across the table.

"Yeah. I do miss it sometimes," he confessed. "I just really can't go back right now. I need to get my shit together, in case you haven't noticed." John noticed that Isabella was unruffled by his language. "I'm sure I will one of these days." He sipped his coffee. She was his favourite barista; she always made his coffee perfect. The blond known to him as Johanna never made it strong enough. "If you don't mind me asking, what is your life's plan, Bella? I don't see you being a barista for the rest of your life."

"You'd be right about that. I'm in college. I have a year left in music production."

"You do music?"

"Yeah. I can play anything that I can get my hands on. Clarinets and violins to drums, guitars and bass. I can read everything from tabs to classical chords. My dad and my grandfather taught me. They were both musicians and they kind of passed it along to me. I specialize more in blues and soul."

"I recorded a rap album a few years back," he reminisced. He didn't know why he had said it, but he had. "I used to love composing music." Isabella noticed how vacant and distant his eyes had become. Clouded over with memory. He bit the inside of his cheek; she had been one of his biggest supporters. Isabella jumped, startled, at the sound of the oven timer going off and she went to take out the scones and began to mix the muffin batter. After putting the muffins in the oven, she pulled out a piece of paper and wrote her number down on it. She took it to John, who studied it and looked up at her in surprise.

"What's this?"

"Don't be offended, and don't get the wrong idea, but I think you could use a friend, Mr. Cena. If you ever need to talk to someone outside of your little circle, give me a shout. No catch, no judgment. I promise." He smiled, his eyes welling up with tears. Isabella felt a little embarrassed; he blushed as well. She was sure he wasn't a total ogre; he just needed a friend in his darkest hour.

"Thank you, Bella." He shoved the number into his wallet as the door swung open. Johanna entered, her blonde hair in braided pigtails. It was a bleached blonde, almost colourless. She rubbed her hands together.

"Good morning, Bella!" she greeted cheerfully. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him sitting in his same spot. She turned to Isabella. "Do I…"

"It's fine," Isabella assured her. She turned to John. "I should get back."

"I gotcha. Thanks." She nodded and disappeared behind the counter. John turned his attention out to the window to watch the world pass him by. In minutes he had put his headphones in his ears and drowned out the world with bass.

"Is everything okay?" Johanna whispered to Isabella as she took over mixing some carrot muffin batter. Isabella nodded, but Johanna wasn't convinced. "Are you sure? Do I need to phone the police?"

"God no! We talked, he apologized. He's having a rough winter."

"Doesn't give him the excuse to be a total dick-hole," Johanna whispered. "Bella, you're too nice sometimes. People like him enjoy being a dick."

It didn't take long for Isabella to realize that she didn't want to have this argument with Johanna. Especially while John was in the store. Thankfully for her, the doors opened and Mari entered, excited about her first date the night before. Johanna was on her like a vulture, pressing for all the details. Isabella wiped down the countertops out front, locking eyes with John. He wasn't smiling.


	5. Helping Hands

"Ugh…hullo?"

Isabella looked at the glowing red light of her alarm clock that rested firmly on her orange wooden nightstand. The red lights glared back at her defiantly, informing her that it was after two o'clock in the morning. A twinge of panic coursed through her; nobody ever calls at this time unless it's an emergency.

It had been seventy-two hours since she had given John her phone number, and he hadn't phoned. She supposed he wasn't ready for friends or help yet, but she felt a little better knowing that she at least made the offer. Christmas was coming fast, and nobody deserved to be alone during the holidays.

"Good morning, Ma'am. You don't know me. My name is Ray Wasson, and I work at the Cheetah Club. I'm a bartender," he added quickly. Isabella yawned; the Cheetah Club sounded like some seedy strip club. The guy sounded almost embarrassed to admit that he worked there.

"Can't say I've ever been there," she yawned again. She was a little irritated, being pulled out of a good dream. If only she could remember what she was dreaming about…

"It's on Roosevelt, just on the outskirts of town. Look, I normally wouldn't phone somebody at this time of the night, but you were the only number on this guy's person and he's refusing a taxi. He's really hammered and making a scene about leaving between getting sick in the john. He's talking some nonsense and angry as hell that I took his car keys. I know it's late, and you're really tired, but do you think you could come and get him?" There was a twinge of fear in his voice, and Isabella knew he was referring to John. She couldn't blame him; a big, muscular guy drunk and making a scene? It's a recipe for disaster. She suddenly found herself awake and alert.

"Yeah. I'll be there in ten."

"Thanks, Miss. The bar is closed, but just come on in." He hung up and she turned on her bedside lamp, her eyes squinting and adjusting to the light. With a groan, she got out of bed and put her hair into a messy, half-assed bun. She slid on a pair of black yoga pants that were strewn on the floor and a white sweater from the closet before she grabbed her keys. Before she left, she wrote a note to her roommate Ruby Simmons. Just in case she woke up to find Isabella missing.

Isabella had to roll down the window and blare some Esperanza Spalding to stay awake for the ten minute drive. She was worried about what she was going to walk into. It sounded like John was drunk and belligerent; it took her back to their first encounter at Starbucks only four days before.

Turning into the parking lot, she parked the car and took a moment to catch her breath. Knowing that the best thing to do would be to just dive headfirst into the fire, Isabella climbed out of the car and walked into the bar. She wasn't surprised to find that it was one of those bars where patrons threw peanut shells on the floor. A real dive.

_No wonder this Ray guy is embarrassed to work here, _she thought to herself with a grimace. Pinup girls were lit up in neon green and pink along the walls. The party had long since died, the jukebox shut off. She approached the shiny wooden bar, where a sandy haired man with freckles stood, wiping out a martini glass. He turned to her, startled.

"I got a phone call earlier from Ray…" she started, and he nodded.

"That would be me. Nice to meet you, Miss. Sorry to call under such circumstances. He's in the men's room. Don't worry about going in since we're closed." She nodded and went towards the dark wooden door with the illustration of a stick man on it. She knocked softly before she entered.

John was in the last stall, clutching the bowl as he threw up profusely, his entire body heaving and convulsing. It looked absolutely painful and sounded even worse. Isabella went to his side, fitting into the stall as best she could, rubbing his back gently as he emptied what little he had left in his stomach into the bowl.

He pulled back and turned to her. "Lisa…" His hand reached out and caressed her face. It was rough, calloused. Isabella was surprised by his show of affection, and at the slight tingle that rushed through her at the contact of his touch. Placing her hands softly on his wrist, she pulled them away from her face.

"It's Bella, John. Not Lisa. Come on. The bar is closing, it's time to get you home." He looked disoriented and confused. She knew that kind of drunkenness all too well; her grandfather did it many times throughout his troubled life.

Not intending to, she stole an inadvertent glance at the toilet bowl. It looked like there was no food in his system. She was alarmed to find blood. She flushed.

With great struggle - Ray had to step in and help - John was helped into her car. "Where do you live?" she asked after Ray had buckled him in and shut the door. She buckled her seatbelt.

"Nowhere."

Her last nerve was starting to give. "What do you mean, nowhere?"

"I don't wanna go home," John slurred. "Too painful. She's not there. She's never there." His tone sounded so lost, so heartbroken that it made Isabella ache. "I should go home," he said after a minute or two. Then he opened the passenger door and dry heaved. Thankfully, nothing came up. When he was finished, he closed the door and gave Isabella his address, fumbling with two or three numbers before getting it right. They drove, the only sounds in the car the soft music and his soft cries. Lisa. Isabella assumed it was a dead lover or relative, someone he had been very close to.

John lived in a big house with a long driveway. She was sure the place had been beautiful once, but the grass and the weeds were slowly starting to overtake it. Isabella parked as close to the door as she could and set about helping him into the house. Since he couldn't see anything in the darkness, she was tasked with opening the door. When she pushed the front door open, she was greeted with the strong stench of whiskey, among other things. "Jesus Christ, it smells like something died in here!" Isabella breathed. She looked at John, who was double her size, and wondered how she was holding him up.

"She's all around me, but she's not _here_," he informed Isabella adamantly. "All the pictures and all the presents don't mean shit without the real thing."

Isabella wasn't sure how to respond. "Come on. Let's get you to bed." She kicked the front door shut with her foot and proceeded to help John half-stumble up the stairs. She wasn't surprised to find his bedroom looked like it had been ransacked in a drunken fit of rage.

Pulling back the navy bed sheets, she put him in bed and settled him in, putting the blanket up past his shoulders. She was sure to lay him on his side, in case he was sick during the night and couldn't get up. Exhausted, Isabella was more concerned about John's well-being than her good night's sleep. She turned to leave, but his hand shot out of the covers and clasped her wrist, catching her by surprise.

"Don't go…I just don't want to be lonely anymore," he sobbed. Isabella was so taken aback and stricken by his words. Everything between the two of them had happened so fast, but he was crying for help. Where was his family, his friends? She felt like it was too soon, and not the right time to pry for information. So far all she had was a name. Lisa. "Stay with me. I just need someone close."

Isabella nodded, sitting down beside him on the bed. She stroked his hair soothingly. It didn't surprise her that he was asleep in minutes. She saw the empty bottles on the nightstand and wondered how he was still standing.

Quietly, she collected the empty bottles and took them downstairs as quietly as she could. She rifled around the kitchen for a black garbage bag, placing the bottles into the bag and into the front closet. In the same closet, she found a knitted blue blanket and took it to the couch. Just in case he needed anything, she wanted to be close by. She was worried he was going to drink himself to death.

It was clear to Isabella that John Cena had been unravelling for a long time. There was a plastic Christmas tree erected in the living room, complete with dusty, wrapped presents underneath the tree. She sighed; there was no way she was going to be able to sleep.

At around three-thirty, she got up to get herself a glass of water. She found another empty whiskey bottle on top of the refrigerator. Isabella wondered how she could have missed it as she went to the open closet and put the bottle inside the bag.

She was sure John wasn't going to wake up in the morning. Returning to the kitchen, she looked at the dirty dishes that cluttered the countertops. She found the dish soap and filled up the sink with hot soapy water. In minutes she had filled the dish rack, and decided to let some pots soak while the other dishes were drying. A couple of them were mouldy and smelly. Isabella was surprised that John hadn't made himself sick. By the time all of that was done, it was quarter to four. She folded up the knitted blanket and put it back in the closet.

The place looked like it hadn't been cleaned in years. Isabella, being a neat-freak, found herself twitching at how dirty the house was. He had really let himself - and everything around him - fall to pieces. Isabella promised herself that she wouldn't give up on him until he was at least back on track.

She wondered how he survived when she saw the inside of the fridge. The stench inside made her turn away and gag. "Jesus, something _definitely _died in there," she whispered. On first glance, it looked like he was surviving on a steady diet of whiskey. With soapy water and a rag, she threw out the mouldy and rotted food in the fridge and washed out the smell. By the time that was finished, it was quarter after four, and her exhaustion was officially gone, in exchange for a second wind.

He hadn't made a noise since she put him to bed. She didn't think he would. Quietly, she crept upstairs with an ice cream pail to put beside him. She checked to make sure he was still breathing, relieved to see his body move with each soft breath. It had been years since she'd seen somebody so drunk. It reminded her why she didn't drink.

Turning, she saw the overflowing laundry hamper beside the tall dresser. She took the hamper downstairs, hunting around until she found the door to the basement. Down there, in the dank, dusty room, she found a washer and dryer that hadn't been touched in a long time. She was surprised to find he had so many cleaning products, considering he hadn't used any of them in a long time. Isabella felt ridiculous, cleaning a stranger's house, but she was pretty sure that he would appreciate clean clothes and dishes and a fridge that didn't smell like somebody had stored a corpse in there. She started the washer and timed an hour on her cell phone.

By eight o'clock in the morning, Isabella had washed, dried, folded and stored his laundry. She even put it away, surprised that he didn't stir or make a sound when she crashed into things. The dishes were finished and put away. She took the garbage out to the edge of the driveway before going to the store to pick up breakfast stuff. He was going to be undoubtedly hung-over, and she was going to be ready with a greasy breakfast to sop up whatever alcohol was left in his system. She had so many questions she wanted to ask him; she knew that she had to tread carefully, though.

Taking out two frying pans, she cracked six eggs and added some milk and pepper, scrambling them with a fork. She plugged in the toaster and put some bacon on.

Upstairs, John was first aware of the clanging and the banging downstairs. His head was throbbing, and he couldn't remember anything about the night before. Even worse, his mouth tasted like he had swallowed an ash tray. He was alarmed that somebody had broken into his home.

On shaky legs, he got out of bed. He didn't notice the laundry hamper missing because he was too hung-over. With a groan, he went into the bathroom adjoining his bedroom and brushed his teeth. He could hear sizzling downstairs. His face darkened; had he brought a woman home? Even on his most drunken of nights, he had yet to do that. He was still too wrapped up in Lisa to even contemplate it.

Making his way down the stairs, holding onto the railing for support, he saw his laundry hamper on the couch. The clothes inside were neat and folded. He cocked an eyebrow; it had been forever and a day since he had clean clothes. He wondered if his mother had let herself in to look after him.

Stepping into the kitchen, he found the barista behind the counter making breakfast. She was dressed normally, in a fluffy white sweater and yoga pants. There was nothing on her face to indicate they had done anything. "You."

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine." She looked exhausted. He sat down at the island counter as she pulled out two plates. The sharp smell of chemical cleaners greeted him, made him feel nauseous. "Before you get any ideas, John, since you were so drunk, we did _not _do _anything." _John sighed in relief. "Do you remember anything?"

"No. Not really." Those were the good nights.

"I got a call from the Cheetah Club at closing time. You were drunk, sick, and refusing to leave. They found my number in your hoodie and asked me to come get you."

"Sorry, but…is that coffee?" She nodded and fixed him a cup. He was surprised to find she was so familiar with his home. It was a little off-putting to him. He thanked her and sipped his coffee. "Have you slept, Bella?"

"Not really. I kind of got sidetracked straightening up. I hope you don't mind. It started that I was hunting for a blanket. You told me to stay, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of girl that just hops into bed with men I don't know. Anyway, I ended up collecting your empty bottles when I put you to bed, and it just kind of went one thing after another. I also cleaned your fridge. I think something bit me when I was in there, but I'll know for sure if I change at the next full moon." John hung his head in his hands and chuckled.

Four pieces of toast popped up from the toaster. She slid the eggs onto the plates. "What kind of jam is that?"

"Strawberry."

"I'll go for that." He remembered the days when Lisa used to cook him breakfast. He wanted a drink. Cooking breakfast was such a personal thing, he found. He wasn't all that bothered by Isabella doing it; he figured it was because she looked so much like Lisa. "I can reimburse…"

"Don't worry about it. Friends do stuff like this for each other."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Just eat. Sop up some of that booze." She slathered jam onto two pieces of toast and cut them diagonally.

"You really didn't have to do this…"

"I know. But you could probably use something home cooked. There were a ton of takeout boxes in your fridge." She wasn't going to start lecturing him about all the booze. She didn't get rid of it, either; even though it felt like enabling, she didn't think that it was her place to do it.

She put breakfast in front of him and he dug into it right away. He didn't realize how hungry he was. He looked up at Isabella, who picked and poked at a piece of bacon. John suddenly felt self-conscious. "Do you have a family in the area, John?"

"Not here. They're all back in Massachusetts," he confessed. "They don't really want anything to do with me."

"I'm sure that's not the case." Isabella decide to drop the subject, judging by the flaming look in his eyes. She looked out the sliding glass door; it was snowing. "I, uh, picked up some Gravol, too. Just in case you needed it today."

"Thanks."

They hated the stilted awkwardness of the conversation. John wondered why he had to be so defensive when all she wanted to do was help. He shovelled the last of the scrambled eggs into his mouth. "Who was she?"

"Who?"

"Lisa. You called me Lisa last night."

John instantly felt the burning red flush of rage and embarrassment. "None of your business," he snapped. He got up. "Feel free to head home anytime you'd like. I'm not going to die."

He turned back to Isabella, who looked stung. Even though he felt a little remorseful, he turned and disappeared up the stairs.


	6. Christmas Shopping

Ruby Simmons was tinkering around on Isabella's electric keyboard when Isabella walked into the apartment they shared. A year younger than Isabella, Ruby was a curvy brunette with grey-green eyes that were very pale. The two of them met on the first day of sixth grade, becoming inseparable ever since. She wasn't a music major like Isabella, though; Ruby was two years away from getting her social worker's degree.

She looked up as Isabella dropped her purse on the counter. "Crisis averted?" she asked. Isabella fixed herself a cup of coffee, pondering her answer. She took her cup of black coffee into the living room and sat down on the couch, a brown leather thing that was older than Isabella.

"Crisis averted? My crisis is just beginning," Isabella murmured, taking a sip from her mug. She grimaced; it was a lot stronger than she was used to. "I've gotten myself into a whole heap of trouble with this John Cena thing, and I just can't walk away from it." Ruby stopped tinkering with the keys and turned to Isabella.

"Now I'm fascinated." Of course, Ruby knew all about Isabella's run in with the former WWE Champion. "Did the crisis last night have anything to do with your unruly patron?"

"It had _everything _to do with him. I had to haul him out of the Cheetah Club last night." Ruby grimaced; she'd been there a few times. The last time, she went with a few classmates. A few drunk men in their forties had harassed and groped her. It was the last time she went back. It was a real meat market, men on the prowl for loose women. Isabella sighed, aggravated. "I mean, where the hell is this guy's family? I mean, who just walks out on somebody who's struggling so visibly? God, he's so hurt, and he's so defensive. It's so infuriating!"

"Did he tell the bar to call you?" Of course, she knew that Isabella had given him her number.

"No. They found my number in his hoodie. Guy wasn't even carrying a cell phone." She rested her head against the couch and stared up at the ceiling. "The worst part is that this man is beyond any sort of help that I could give him. I mean, I'm no therapist. He'd explode if I suggested that he look at getting some counselling or something. I ask him a question and he clams up. He's like a time bomb, just waiting to explode."

"He sounds dangerous, Izzie."

"I barely know him, but I don't think he's dangerous at all. I just think he's been wallowing for so long - alone - and now there's someone who cares and he's not sure what he's feeling." Ruby whistled low.

"You walked into something really fucked, haven't you?"

"Yeah. When are you set to fly out to your mom's?"

"I'm not."

"What?"

"Mom decided to run off to Vegas and get hitched with what's-his-face this Christmas." Ruby's father had died in a car accident when she was five. Since then, Ruby's mother had dated a string of men, including her current beau. Ruby hated them all, and her new soon-to-be-husband creeped out Isabella. She didn't mind Ruby's mother, but for a parent, Isabella thought she was pretty immature. Too eager to put her own happiness above her own daughter's.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Rube. Why don't you come to my parent's for Christmas?"

"You think they'd mind?" Isabella scoffed.

"You're family." She stood and stretched, her bones stiff and sore. "I really need to shower. Then I need to go to the mall and do some Christmas shopping. Why don't you come with?"

"Yeah. I still have a few people to shop for."

"Great. I'll be a few minutes." Isabella disappeared into the bathroom, a white room with countertops littered with shiny bottles of mousse and other beauty products. They were more for Ruby than Isabella, who never played around with her hair. She hardly wore makeup; a little bit of eyeliner and lip gloss was all she went for.

Cleaning John Cena's house had made her feel dirty. She noticed a spot of spilt whiskey on the edge of her sweater. Taking it off quickly, she tossed it into the tall wicker hamper beside the shower. Instead of feeling angry and indignant that he had thrown her out, she felt nothing but pity. She knew he was spending the day drinking himself back into the stupor that he had slept off. She wondered how he could live like that. How the people around him could be okay with it.

When she got out and dried off, she changed into a pair of blue jeans and a red striped sweater. She borrowed Ruby's foundation - a rarity - to hide the bags under her eyes. By the time Isabella came out of the bathroom, Ruby was ready to leave. It struck Isabella odd, since Ruby was normally the one that took forever. Isabella had to constantly put deadlines on her.

They took Isabella's car to the mall. Ruby fiddled around with the radio stations until she came upon some Lady Gaga. "Do you think he can pull through?" she asked. Isabella sighed.

"I'd like to think he could. The guy still has so much to live for. I just wish I could make him see it." She pulled into the parking lot and they got out. "I want to stop by CinnaBon, but I know you don't object."

"Extra cream cheese frosting?" Ruby asked. Isabella scoffed.

"Is there any other way to have a cinnamon bun?" They laughed, walking across the snowy parking lot, the snow crunching under their boots. They wiped their feet off on the entrance mat when they entered through the double glass doors. "Who do you still have left to shop for, Rube?"

"Mom and Grandma."

"I really can't believe your mom, you know that? She blows a huge gasket about having you for Christmas _every year, _and now she's taking off to get married in Vegas."

"Yeah. I knew it was only a matter of time before she married that troll. She's been with him six years. It's a record by her standards." Isabella snickered.

Their first stop was an independently owned store that sold homemade jams and knickknacks. Isabella bought a gift set, complete with five different kind of jams and a make your own scone kit for her grandparents.

Then they went to Hot Topic to find clothes for Isabella's sister Miranda. Ruby approached, a glittering black halter in her hand. "I know that look, Izzie, and you've had it all morning. What's going on in that screwy little head of yours?"

"He has a shrine to her in his house," Isabella murmured, her gaze resting on a pair of black rhinestone jeans that she knew her sister would love. She looked up at Ruby. "We can't let John have Christmas alone this year."

"Doesn't he have a family to go to?"

"I think he's pushed them all out of the picture," Isabella confessed. "When I asked about his life, he tossed me out of his house." She had the jeans rested over her right arm. Now she was looking through T-shirts. "I promised myself last night that I wouldn't walk away from him until he's back to the man he used to be."

"Is that even possible?"

"I don't know, Rube. But I can't just turn my back on him. He needs help."

"You always were a bleeding heart, Bell." Ruby shook her head while Isabella rifled through more shirts. "Maybe invite him to your place for Christmas. Would your parents be okay with that?"

"I don't know. I just know that we can't let him drink himself to death on Christmas. It just doesn't feel right." She found the perfect shirt, black with slits in the sleeves and the chest. Definitely Miranda's style. "I wonder if I should get him something. What does etiquette dictate?"

"That he doesn't have the bar call you at two A.M. for a ride home." Isabella rolled her eyes. "How the hell should I know, Izzie? I've never been stupid enough to get myself stuck in your situation!"

"Thanks, Rube."

"You still love me." With another roll of their eyes, they went to the cashier. "If you think he isn't going to explode, then I'd say do it. Just don't expect him to get you anything."

"I'm not, Rube. Whatever happened, happened at this time of the year. It seems like the best thing to do would be to have some compassion and understanding." She thought about the things he had said in his drunken state of mind, and it made her heart crack a little bit further into the center.

"I just hope you're careful, Izzie. From what you're telling me, he sounds like a loose cannon. But if you want to invite him to join us, you should talk to your mom and dad first, and then talk to him."

"He'll probably say no, but it's the thought that counts, right?" Ruby nodded. They paid for their items and stopped for lunch at the food court. Ruby got some poutine from New York Fries, while Isabella got herself a burger from McDonald's.

"Well, don't resign yourself to defeat, Bella. Maybe he's just looking for somebody to extend that branch to him." Ruby popped a fry into her mouth. "I mean, by all accounts, it looks like he's trying to do things on his own and it's failing."

"I just don't get why his family wouldn't want to be there for him."

"It could be that he pushed himself out of their picture. Think about it; the man is a drunk, he's volatile and hostile. Putting up with that for so long is bound to drive people away. They don't want to get sucked into his vortex of negativity. Or - and I doubt you'd like to hear this, but I'm gonna put it out there - they're all resigned to the fact that he's going to drink himself to death, and there's nothing they can do about it."

"That's awful."

"You never know. Grief is one of the most fucked up things anybody can deal with. It makes people act out in ways they wouldn't normally. This guy, John Cena, I did some reading, and it sounds like he's had the weight of the world on his shoulders for a lot of years."

"Did you read anything about a Lisa?"

"Yeah. She was his fiancée. She died in a car accident while he was at some WWE pay-per-view. I followed the link to the article. Apparently he had just been fired by the Nexus, so it was used as an excuse to keep him off TV. Except he never came back."

"He says he misses the WWE, but he's not in the right mental shape to go back," Isabella confided. She sighed, poking at her fries. "It hurts seeing somebody so despondent, and so ready to give up. Last night was so heartbreaking."

"Should I come with you when you ask him?"

"No. He won't hurt me, Rube. If he wanted to, he's had plenty of opportunity. I think he just wants someone to listen, but he's not quite ready to talk. Just too stubborn to admit it." Ruby looked doubtful. "It'll be fine, Ruby, I promise. Just because he was a professional wrestler doesn't mean he has the words 'woman beater' stamped across his forehead."


	7. Hostile Invitations

_**Author's Note: I usually don't like to do these before a chapter, but I feel I should explain the lack of updates as of late. See, I had a whole bunch of chapters written for a few books, including a few more prompts for the brainstorming sessions. But my Dinosaur Dell laptop died, taking ALL the work with it. So at the moment, I'm back to square one, struggling to catch up. So I'm working at it, but I'll just need some patience. Here's chapter seven of the Isabella Evans story. Hope you enjoy, and I'm sorry for the inconvenience.**_

* * *

Isabella stepped out of her home and looked up into the bright white Florida sky. Being so far down south in the United States, snow in Florida was a rarity. This winter was a strange exception, laying at least an inch or two of snow on the ground every couple of days. It had snowed again only two days ago, the day Isabella had phoned her mother, asking if she could invite a couple of friends over for dinner. Her mother Jane agreed that nobody should be left alone during the holidays, and told her it was fine to bring her friends. Isabella was thankful that her parents were so accepting of other people, but she was worried about how John was going to react to the invitation.

Isabella got in her car and began the drive to John's house, trying to keep the butterflies from completely taking over her stomach. When she had left, Ruby was stuck on the phone, pantomiming hanging herself with an invisible rope. It was a clear sign that she was talking to her irresponsible mother, who called from Vegas to tell Ruby all about her "dream" wedding. It took everything Isabella had not to laugh out loud at Ruby's dramatics.

It was a perilous drive to John's house. Florida drivers weren't used to snow, so they were driving like the apocalypse was coming. Isabella took her time just to be safe. She dodged at least two accidents before she made it to John's house. She wasn't surprised to find all the lights off as she made her way up the long and winding driveway. Total darkness was set to fall in an hour, but the sky was already starting to go from steely white to dark grey. Isabella hoped to be on her way home before night fell and the real idiots came out to play.

She knocked. "John, it's Bella!"

There was no response. Isabella rang the doorbell and waited again. She turned to examine the driveway. All of his cars were parked neatly in the driveway, a nice sheet of snow covering all of them. It was clear to Isabella that he hadn't left the house in at least two days. A pang of dread stabbed her, but she brushed it off as her overactive imagination mixed with paranoia. She checked the doorknob, surprised to find the door unlocked. Gingerly, she opened the door, afraid that John was going to come out of nowhere and start yelling at her for walking in unannounced. As sympathetic as Isabella was, she was also well aware that John was very unpredictable and oftentimes very scary.

"Hello?" she called out sheepishly. She walked in, closing the door softly behind her. Isabella ventured into the kitchen, surprised to find it still spotless from when she cleaned it. Taking a scrap of paper from on top of the microwave, she wrote her parent's address on the paper and stuck it to the refrigerator with a magnet.

Isabella thought about leaving right then, but she decided quickly that she wanted to make sure John was okay. Stepping into the living room, she felt a brisk chill stabbing into her, chilling her to the bone. That's when she noticed the sliding glass door wide open. Pushing the worst-case scenario thoughts out of her head, she walked out into the back area, thankful that she didn't find John face-down or tangled up in the pool cover. Instead, she found him passed out in a snowy lawn chair. Part of him was covered in snow. Beside him, a spilled bottle of Jack Daniels stained the snow an amber color. She wondered how long he had been outside; he wasn't dressed for being out in the cold. He didn't look like he had any frostbite, but she was worried about hypothermia.

She approached with great trepidation, crouching beside him, shaking his shoulder gently. The smell of liquor was overpowering and pungent in her nostrils. "John...John, wake up, please. I can't carry you," she begged, concern edging her voice. Moving slowly, carefully, Isabella put her head to his chest, relieved to hear a steady but faint heartbeat.

John awakened when she tried to brush the snow off him. Caught off-guard and still pretty drunk, he flailed, catching Isabella in the head. She stumbled back, surprised, slipping and hitting the snow. She let out a high-pitched cry of surprise as the icy wetness absorbed into her pants. Instead of sympathy or concern, she looked up into the seething bearded face of John Cena.

"I didn't realize breaking and entering was your favorite past-time, Bella," he told her angrily, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"Your front door was unlocked," she explained. "I came to talk to you and I couldn't find you. I wanted to make sure you were okay..."

"Save your pity for the weak," John shot back at her. She wanted to tell him that she was looking at a pretty weak human being, but she bit her tongue. She wasn't there to antagonize him. She didn't want to upset him. Isabella Evans only wanted to help, to be a friend. "I'm serious, Bella - you can't just drop by whenever you feel like." He looked down at the bottle and his face contorted with anger. Irate, he kicked the bottle. Isabella flinched as it flew through the air, missing her by inches before it landed on the pool cover. "You need to leave, Bella. I need to go out." Isabella shook her head. John's jaw dropped. "If you don't leave, Bella, I'll call the cops. Don't push me."

Isabella scrambled to her feet. John didn't offer her assistance, and she didn't ask for it. "You're still drunk, John. I can't let you go out. If you need more liquor, I'll take you. Hell, I'll go and get it for you. But don't drive drunk, John. If you don't care about yourself, then think about the others on the road. You don't get to decide that their lives aren't important."

"Don't talk to me about important lives!" he roared. "Why should I give two shits about anybody out there? It's not like anybody gives a rat's ass about me. It's not like anyone gave a rat's ass about _her_!"

"I'm not going to argue this with you, John," she told him. "I can't." She was irritated about her crash to the snow. "I know you're still hurting, but life is valuable. It doesn't matter whose life. It's all valuable." He snorted. She shook her head. "John, I came because I wanted to invite you to Christmas dinner with my family, if you aren't doing anything. I'd hate for you to be alone on Christmas..."

"I don't need your goddamn charity, Bella. Just get the fuck out." She didn't move right away. He grabbed her arm, irritated. "I mean it - I will have the cops arrest you for trespassing." Isabella was stunned he had grabbed her. She shook her arm out of his grasp and stepped back, raising her hands in surrender.

"Fine, John, I'm leaving. My parent's address is on the fridge if you should change your mind."

"Bella, _leave_!" he bellowed.

"I'm going!" she shouted. "Just promise me you won't do anything stupid!"

He glared at her. Isabella knew she had overstayed her welcome, but she was scared he was going to go out. With great reluctance, she let herself out, whispering a prayer under her breath that John wasn't going to kill himself or anybody else. She turned to stare back at the house. There was an ominous chill in her bones that she couldn't get out. She really didn't want to leave, but she knew that he was unpredictable enough to have her arrested for trespassing.

As she walked down the driveway, she kicked a ball of ice in anger, watching it roll down the hill. She fought the urge to scream. Never in her entire life had she met a man as infuriating as John Cena.


	8. Face From The Past

Isabella opened the glass door and walked into the dimly lit police station on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. It was a cold, sterile environment that chilled her more than the air outside. At the front desk sat an elderly woman, her greyish-bluish hair piled high on her head, dressed like she belonged on an episode of _Mad Men_, dressed in a tight-fitting square-cut red dress. The nameplate on the desk read _Rose McGovern_.

"Can I help you?" she rasped. Isabella nodded.

"Yes. I'm here to pick up a John Cena?"

She nodded, typing something into the computer. Isabella felt as though she had done something wrong. Police stations always made her feel out of place and nervous. She watched the receptionist pick up the phone and call for somebody. Isabella looked around, the guilt swelling inside of her. She had begged John not to go out and drive while he was drunk. He had done it anyway. Isabella hoped that nobody had gotten hurt, or even worse. She was so disappointed in herself for leaving him.

"Hello."

She looked to the left, seeing a handsome officer. He was about six feet tall, with wavy dark brown hair and deep-set green eyes. His shoulders were broad, his body lean. His jaw was well-shaped, nose perfect, lips full and sensual. Isabella took a moment to steady herself and smiled. ""Hi," she managed.

"Are you the one that's here to pick up John Cena?"

"I am."

"Come with me…" She approached, following him through a door that needed to be unlocked with a code. "I'm really sorry to disturb you on Christmas Eve, Miss…"

"Isabella."

"Isabella. Thanks for coming. He refused to give us any sort of contact information. We arraigned him this morning, and he finally gave us your number. All it took was getting him sobered up."

"Nobody was hurt, right?"

"Nobody was hurt," he confirmed. "We caught him driving erratically. Considering how belligerent he was when we brought him here, we're just lucky he didn't give us any trouble when we arrested him." He sighed. "My eight year-old nephew just loves him, Isabella. This is really very sad." She saw his name tag. It read _Cartier_.

"It is," she agreed. She felt guilty, like she should be sitting in a jail cell beside him. He opened the door. John stood. His blue eyes looked so lost, so helpless. Isabella's flamed red-hot with anger.

"Come on," she said tightly. "I'll take you home." She turned to the officer. "Thank you…"

"Grant. Grant Cartier."

"Thank you. I hope you have a happy holiday season." She grabbed John by the wrist and roughly pulled him out of the drunk-tank. The fury that burned through her veins threatened to burn her alive. John followed behind her solemnly, out into the fresh air.

"Bella…"

"You don't get to talk to me right now," she told him angrily. Then she stopped and she wheeled on him. "Do you not care about _anybody _but yourself? You could have killed someone. God, you seem like such a smart guy, but you're acting like an idiot!"

"Bella, I'm sorry."

"Just get in the car." She unlocked the doors. John sighed, his shoulders curving in despair before he got in the passenger's side. "They're going to charge you. I can see it."

"I deserve it."

She opened her mouth to speak, but she clamped it shut. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but she didn't want to start another fight. They drove in silence, the sound of cheesy Christmas carols on the radio. "I'm sorry, Bella. I need help."

"You need more help than I can possibly give," she conceded.

"I, uh, I appreciate everything you've done. Even if it doesn't seem like it," he told her. He rested his head back against the seat. "I suppose this is what rock bottom feels like." She made the turn heading towards his home. She didn't really know what to say. He didn't have his job, he didn't have his family and he's facing legal troubles because he did something stupid. Isabella wondered if this was the corner he needed to turn.

"I just want you to piece yourself back together," she told him.

"I'm irreparable."

"I don't buy that. But you do need help."

She pulled into the driveway. They noticed a limousine in the driveway. "Shit."

"Who is it, John?"

"I'm going to bet it's Vince. Just drop me off here and I'll deal with it." She nodded. He got out of the car and Isabella left. John couldn't possibly feel any lower as he walked up the front steps and into his house.

The limousine door opened and Vince McMahon got out, his eyes narrowed. "Jesus," Vince stated. "I heard you'd really gone off the deep end, but Jesus fucking Christ…"

"Please don't start, Vince." John grabbed his keys and unlocked the door. Vince followed him inside.

"We offered you counselling. We offered you time off. We offered you anything you could possibly want. Why didn't you take it?" Vince demanded. "Why did I have Shane and Stephanie text me because your arrest made TMZ? It didn't have to go like this, John, and you know it!"

"Vince…" John clamped his mouth shut. He couldn't think of the right thing to say. "Do you want a coffee?"

"Sure. I have about an hour to talk you into your senses," Vince replied. John set about making the coffee. "She never would have wanted you to fall apart like this, John."

"I don't want to hear this."

"I think you need to. What you're doing is selfish to your professional family, and to your family. Randy Orton has been beside himself for years now. He's scared to death you're going to die."

"Well, where the hell has he been?"

"You pushed him out, John. You pushed everybody out." Vince sat down at the island counter. "I've tried to be patient, but I'm not going to sit back any longer and let you kill yourself slowly. You look like you've aged ten years in two. That's not healthy."

"Don't do this right now, Vince. I had a bad night."

"John, you need help. I'm here to offer it."

"What? With rehab?" John snorted. "I don't need rehab."

"John, this house smells like a goddamned brewery," Vince informed him. "Take it. Take the help. What's the worst that could happen?" John sighed.

"Fine, Vince. I'll do what you say."

"Good. And when you're ready, your spot is good to go."

"Thanks, Vince."

"John, you've had us so worried for so long. You need to piece it together."

"I know that now. I had a lot of time to think last night."

"I'm glad to hear that. Pack up. I'll take you to the airport."

"Now?"

"Well, what do you have left to do here?"

"I do have some Christmas plans," John told him.

"Do they involve the girl I saw drive you up here?"

"It's not what you think, Vince."

"I don't care what it is. I just don't want to see another Superstar dead under my umbrella," Vince told him. "If you want to do your Christmas plans, fine. But I want you to call me tomorrow night and tell me where you're intending to go." Vince reached into his blazer and pulled out a list. "These are the places to choose from. If I find out you haven't gone, Shane and I will come down here and drag you ourselves."

"I don't doubt that."

"You shouldn't."

"What do you take in your coffee?" John asked, pouring two cups.

"Black." John handed the coffee mug to Vince and fixed himself his cup of coffee. He looked at the Christmas tree with the presents. John was thankful it was Christmas Eve, just because he was embarrassed to let anybody know that he had been keeping it as a shrine to her. "Do you ever intend on coming back?"

John nodded. "I do miss it."

"I'm glad to hear that. We miss you." He sipped his coffee. "Here's an idea: why don't you do a month down there and get yourself in order and taken care of, and then take another week. We'll be here in a month and a half with the show for _Raw_. We can have you come back then."

"I think that sounds like a plan. I probably should start getting busy again." John sighed. "It gives me some time to get back in shape. Jesus, I've let things fall apart…"

"No sense in dwelling on it, John. You just need to keep looking forward." He nodded. "I feel like this is going too smoothly."

"You caught me on the right day," John told him. "I had a lot of time to think last night in the drunk-tank."

Vince put his cup down on the counter and stood. "I hate to do this, but I need to get on a plane. We're doing dinner at Stephanie's tonight." He approached John. "Get yourself better, and don't worry. The door is always open for you." John nodded. He watched in silence as Vince let himself out.


	9. Merry Christmas

Isabella studied her appearance in the mirror for the last time. Ruby was still busy styling her hair, putting the two of them forty-five minutes behind schedule. Isabella looked good, dressed in a little black dress with a red Christmas sweater over top. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, tied with red ribbon. Ruby was dressed in black jeans and a green Christmas sweater. She appeared in the doorway, her face heavy with makeup. It looked like she was hardly wearing any; Isabella always wondered how she did it.

"Are you ready?" Ruby asked. Isabella nodded. She quickly reapplied some clear gloss to her lips and left the bathroom. "Have you heard from him at all?" Isabella shook her head. "Well, that's rude."

Isabella shrugged. They locked up and left the house. Most of the snow was already gone. They decided to take Isabella's car to the house. As per the norm when driving with Isabella, Ruby spent the first few minutes of the drive tinkering with Isabella's radio station, going from jazz to top forty. "Did you try calling him?"

"It's not my job to chase him down, Rube. I told him the option was open if he wanted to. It doesn't mean that he has to." She thought about the visitor the day before. Was it John's boss? She couldn't see into the tinted windows.

"Well, at least a phone call would have been nice. That way you'd have something to tell your parents," Ruby pointed out. Isabella shrugged. She turned the car into the driveway. Isabella locked up the car while Ruby gathered the bag of presents in the backseat. Together they walked to the front door. Isabella opened the door, walking in without knocking.

"Merry Christmas!" she called out. Her mother Jane emerged from the kitchen, a smile on her face. Isabella was the spitting image of her mother, fit and trim from her job as a personal trainer.

"Hey. Your friend told me you were running late." She hugged her daughter. Isabella turned to Ruby, curious. Disentangling herself from her mother, she went into the living room, stunned to find John playing Wii with Miranda. They were playing the old-school original _Super Mario Bros. _game. Isabella was impressed to see he had shaved, dressed in a button-down black shirt and blue jeans. He paused the game and turned to her.

"Hey! You made it," he said with a smile. They walked into the living room. Miranda's father Bob was reading a magazine, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. He looked up and smiled at Isabella, who offered a weak wave. Miranda gave up on the game, advancing on the bag of presents in Ruby's hand.

"I didn't see your car," Isabella commented. He smiled.

"I took a cab," he confessed.

"Well, I'm glad you made it," she replied. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Bella." Miranda thanked Isabella for her gift and took off into the kitchen to show her mother what Isabella got her. Isabella noticed her father's head peering over the newspaper, studying the interaction between the muscular stranger and Isabella very carefully. Ruby, sensing Isabella's discomfort, asked Mr. Evans to go outside with her and check something out on Isabella's car. He agreed.

"Where's Beryl?" Isabella called out.

"Out in the yard," Mrs. Evans called back. John cocked an eyebrow.

"I was a big fan of Sailor Moon growing up, all right? Don't judge me," Bella told him dryly. She pulled open the sliding glass door and went out into the backyard. Beryl was digging at something in the snow. "Here, girl!" Isabella called out. Beryl, a beautiful Akita, turned and ran at Isabella, jumping on her and licking at her face.

"She's beautiful," John commented.

"Don't tell her that – it'll go to her head," Isabella cracked with a smile. "Did you need a ride home?"

"That would be great," he said. He reached into his back pocket. "I got you something."

"I can't accept that," Isabella told him.

"You have to," he told her. "It's the least I can do. You've been so patient." He looked up at the whitened sky. "I'm going to go get help, so I'm going to be gone for a while."

"That's for the best," she answered, relieved to hear that he was finally going to tackle his issues head-on. They stood as Beryl took off into the house. He put the box in her hand. It was little, like a ring box. She sighed, opening the box, surprised to see a beautiful broach in there. She closed the box and went to hand it back to him, but he refused. "I can't accept this, John."

"You have to. Consider it a thank you. I mean, you dragged me home from the bar, bailed me out of jail and cleaned my house. This really is the least I can do." She sighed.

"I got you something, too, but it's in the house," she confessed. He smiled. "I wasn't sure if you were coming or not, but I would have come and dropped it off if I didn't see you here."

"I'm sorry about being such an ass the past little while," John replied. "I'm really trying to get my shit together."

"I know. Grief is a life-long thing. It never goes away. You just kind of learn how to live with it," Isabella confessed. "The real trick is knowing that it's there so it doesn't consume your life the way that it's consumed yours." John nodded. "When does your flight leave? Do you need a ride to the airport?"

"That would be great. My flight leaves at ten tonight."

"Tonight?"

"I decided to catch the red-eye and go early. Is that okay?"

"Of course."

"Thanks, Bella." He gathered her up in his arms and hugged her tight. "I really don't know where I would have been without you the past little while." She smiled, hugging him back, thankful that things were taking a turn for the better. He pulled back. "Can you do me a favor while I'm gone?"

"What do you need?"

"Do you think you could get rid of the tree and the presents? I don't care what you do with them. Donate them or something. I just can't bring myself to do it, and it's kind of unhealthy to have the shrine, I know."

"Consider it done."

"Thanks. I really couldn't find a better friend," John confessed. "There's a spare key under the top step on the front porch." Isabella committed the detail to memory. In the house, they heard the door close. Ruby and Isabella's father came back into the house.

"We should get inside. I think my dad's suspicious of you." John laughed, but he followed Isabella back into the house, shutting the door behind them.


	10. Going To Rehab

John and Isabella stood in front of the boarding gate, the two of them oblivious to the thousands of busy people surrounding them. It was just after four o'clock in the morning, with dawn still hours away from approaching. Dressed in a plain white sweater, blue jeans and running shoes, Isabella flashed John a sad smile. "I guess this is it," she told him softly. He nodded. The night before, he picked a rehab facility in Scottsdale, Arizona, realizing that it would probably be for the best if he left Florida for a while. Isabella understood; there were too many painful memories, too many familiar things. After rehab, he planned on spending some time with his family in Massachusetts. They were relieved when he had called the night before, to say he was finally getting help. His mother begged him to stay with her a while and John agreed. While he was sorting through all the hardship in his mind, he realized he wanted to be around family.

Even though it was an ungodly hour, John was in a good mood. Christmas night had been wonderful, the best he had experienced in a while. He was still profoundly touched that she would include him in such a personal night with her family, considering all the abuse he had heaped on her over the past few months. Her roommate and her family had made him feel welcomed and included, and for that he was eternally grateful. He couldn't even come up with the right words to express how much he appreciated Isabella's efforts over the past few months. When he told her he was leaving Florida, she immediately volunteered to drive him to the airport. She met him first thing, armed with two cups of coffee and a wide smile.

John put his hands on her shoulders. "Thank you, Bella. For everything," he told her. "You are amazing in every sense of the word." He meant that genuinely. He wondered how no man had scooped her up yet.

"I don't know about that," she confessed sheepishly, a soft pink blush creeping up her cheeks. "But thank you." She sighed. "I'm glad you're doing this, John. The land of the living needs you back." Tears began to sting behind their eyes. This morning Isabella was the strong one. The tears spilled out of John's eyes, catching him by surprise. "Live is beautiful, John. You need to figure that out."

He hugged her tightly. She was surprised he was so touchy-feely. John knew something was bothering Isabella, but she wasn't saying a word. She wanted all the attention to be focused on John getting better. Her own problems were on the backburner. But he could see it in her eyes that there was something very serious going on with her, problems that included her brother Trey going missing in Egypt, where he worked as an ambassador. John tried to pry on the way to the airport, but she changed the subject, instead asking him about the facility he was going to stay at.

"I'll be here when you get back," she whispered.

"Thanks, Bella. You'll do those things for me, right?" He had asked her to take in his mail and get rid of the shrine he had kept in his living room. She nodded, rubbing his back soothingly.

"Don't worry – I'll hold down the fort till you get back."

"Thanks, Bella. I owe you."

"Just get yourself better. That's the best thing you can do for me."

He hugged her even tighter, thinking about how lucky he was to find a friend like Isabella. She only wanted to help him and she never asked for anything in return. In all the time he had known her, she never did anything that would make him think that she was being exploited. John was very well aware that some people would run to the dirt sheets to spread the tale of his meteoric fall, reveling in his failures as a human being and leaking his mug shot. The road blocks at one time seemed too big to climb over, but now John was ready to try. All she wanted was what was best for him, and it touched him in ways he never thought possible.

She could hear his soft cries in her ears as he held her close, before the PA system came on, announcing that John's gate was boarding. He pulled back and gave her a smile, using a hand to wipe away the tears in his eyes. "I should be home in a month and a half."

"I'll see you then," she said softly, her voice beginning to crack. The relief she felt was overwhelming and indescribable. But the reality that he wasn't going to be around for her to take care of was leaving her with a void, a much-needed void, as much as she hated to admit it. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead gently, catching her by surprise. He walked away, through the arch, stopping to turn to her one last time before he boarded the plane. They waved to each other and then he was gone, out of her view. She walked through the crowd, to the giant window that overlooked the main area, where all the planes were parked. Quietly, she stood, fidgeting, watching him board the plane. She stayed until his plane was off in the air. She fought the urge to cry like a baby, deciding to go into a café located inside the airport for a coffee before she made the long and lonely drive home.

Ruby sent her a text while she was sitting at the table, sipping her cappuccino and picking at a scone she really didn't want. She sent a reply, telling her that John was on the plane and in the air. Ruby was sympathetic, but Isabella was determined to put on a brave front. He had become a friend she cared about, but she still had that feeling that she could have done more to help him. Ruby told her they were going to go out for dinner, Ruby's treat, which Isabella accepted. She knew it was going to be one of those days where she needed a pick-me-up. Once she finished her coffee, she left the airport.


	11. Meeting Randy

_**I usually don't do Author's Notes, but I feel like this needs to be said:**_

_**I really want to thank everybody that's reviewed this story. I want to thank everyone who's been following my stories for awhile. I know I don't reply to some reviews, but I just want everyone to know that it really means a lot that you guys read these. Your reviews make me strive to be a better writer and tell better stories. So thank you guys so very, very much. **_

* * *

He pulled his red convertible rental car into John's driveway and frowned. He saw the tiny compact Hyundai parked in the driveway and saw the front door open. John's cars were all lined up, not a single muscle car missing from the lineup. Turning off the car, he got out, slamming the door. He jogged towards the front door, up the front steps and into the house. He was instantly greeted with a mixture of fresh air and stale alcohol.

Randy Orton found her standing in the living room, taking the decorations off the dusty Christmas tree. There were boxes everywhere; one full of wrapped presents, the others marked 'CHRISTMAS' for the ornaments. There was a stack of newspaper to wrap the glass decorations in rested on the entertainment unit. Isabella had her back to Randy, her headphones in her ears, oblivious to his presence as she worked diligently. She decided that she was going to take the presents to a shelter, believing that people in need could use whatever was in the boxes more than a thrift store that would charge money. She felt wrong opening the boxes, though.

She turned, shrieking. He noticed the similarities to Lisa right away. Sure, her hair was a little darker, her lips a little thinner and her nose more narrow, but she could easily pass for Lisa. He wondered if John was that desperate, if she was allowing him to live a fantasy. She was dressed in a pair of plain black slacks and a plain white button-down shirt. A green Starbucks apron was slung over the arm of the couch. He noticed the silver charm bracelet around her left wrist. His face darkened.

"Just how in the hell did you get in here?"

Isabella studied him. He was very tall, taller than John. His arms were covered in sleeve tattoos that disappeared beneath the old Pantera shirt he was wearing. His hair was close-cropped and brown, his face weathered and exhausted. There was a cold aura that resonated from him, making her want to wither. He stared past her, at the dusty old Christmas tree, his face a mixture of disdain and disappointment. "You scared me half to death," she told him firmly.

"Answer me – how did you get in here?" he barked. "You'd better tell me before I call the police!"

"Take it easy – I'm a friend of John's," she explained. She put her hands up in mock surrender. "He asked me to take care of a few things around his house while he was in Arizona."

"You're not a friend of John's," he accused. "I've never heard him talk about you." Isabella's eyes widened. She wasn't hurt; she was just angry. She had already come to the conclusion that she disliked this man, and she was quickly realizing that things were only going to get worse for her from here on out. "I would have heard him talk about you."

"You don't even know my name," she charged. He nodded.

"What is your name?"

"Bella Evans." She knew John would only refer to her as Bella. Randy snorted.

"Nope, not a word," he told her smugly.

"That's fine; I haven't heard him speak a word about you, either."

"Please. I'm his best friend. Randy Orton?"

"Never heard of you," she told him coolly.

"I don't believe that." He shook his head. "What am I saying? You need to leave."

"I'm not going anywhere until this tree is taken down and these presents are gone. It's what John asked me to do, and I intend on doing it," she told him firmly. There was an edge of fear in her voice that she was very much aware of. She didn't know him and she certainly didn't know what he was capable of. She wondered if John knew he was here and what he was saying to her.

"I'll take care of it, but you need to leave and never come back here."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he snapped at her, his voice rising. "Stay away from John. You've done more harm than good."

"Excuse me? I certainly didn't see you dragging a drunken John Cena out of the damn Cheetah Club at two o'clock in the morning," she fired back angrily. "And I know I certainly didn't see you picking him up from the police station only hours after begging him not to drive drunk! I've done more harm than good? Well, excuse me, Mr. Orton, but where in the hell have you been?"

"I have a wife and a daughter. I have a life to live." There was an angry beat. He stormed into the room. She thought he was coming for her, but he strolled past her to the fireplace, snatching a picture frame off the mantle. He thrust the photo in her face. "You look just like her! Look at it!" He thrust the photograph into her hands. She looked at the picture. She couldn't see the resemblance. She wondered if it was a mental block, if she had created a wall to deny it, but she really couldn't see the resemblance. John had. She still remembered him that night in the Cheetah Club, telling her that he could feel Lisa's presence everywhere within the house, just not physically there with him. She felt her heart crack a little more. "Do you not realize that John only keeps you around because you look like her? You are no good for him!"

"That's not true," she told him, her voice shaky. "We're friends."

"Would you look at the goddamn picture?" he snarled. "You look just like her! Look at it!" She stared at the picture again, but didn't really see anything. He ripped the photo out of her hands. "You need a pair of fucking glasses," he snapped at her. He put the picture back on the mantle. "I mean it, Ms. Evans – you need to get out of here and never come back. If you cared one iota about John, you'd realize just how unhealthy it is for him to have you around. He's going to be better off without you in the long run, trust me. If you cared for him, you'd back off."

"You don't…"

"What? I don't know you? I don't know John?" He gave her a once over and snorted. "Are you fucking him?"

"Excuse me? Of course not!" she shouted back at him angrily. Words could not express how offended and disgusted she was. "How dare you! I know that you have no idea who I am, but I assure you that I'm not that kind of girl!"

"I'm sure." His tone was mocking, infuriating Isabella in ways she never thought possible. "I'm serious, Bella – if you care about John in any capacity, then you'll stay away from him. You have no idea how much damage you're causing just by your appearance."

"He is my friend, and I'm certainly not walking away from him."

"If you don't stay away from him, I will get involved. He doesn't need you around, constantly reminding him of what happened to Lisa. He's going to be a different man when he gets back, but he's still damaged. You are a fucking curse, Miss Evans, and for that reason alone, you need to stay away from him."

"Why are you saying these things?" She felt attacked. Tears were burning behind her eyes, but she damn sure wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of crying. She wondered how John could be friends with a guy who was so mean-spirited and nasty.

"Because John is my best friend, and I need to protect him better than I have been. I'm going to do what's best for him. You're not in that picture. While John is away, I'm going to be staying here and taking care of his business. Give me his keys. _Now_," he barked when she didn't move fast enough. Tears burned behind her eyes as she walked to her purse on the coffee table. She reached in and took out the keys. He snatched them out of her hands. "Now get out before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing." She didn't move right away. He grabbed her roughly. She cried out. "Don't test me, lady. And once you leave, you're gone. I don't ever want to hear about you contacting John. If I find out that you're there, casting constant reminders of what he used to have, throwing it in his face by your mere presence, I will make your life a living hell. Do you understand?"

She shook out of his grasp, grabbing her apron and her purse and leaving. He slammed the front door behind her. Isabella was shaking as she got in the car. It took her three tries to get the key in the ignition because her hands were shaking so bad. She dropped the keys on the second try. Slamming her hands against the steering wheel, she took a few breaths to steady herself. The door opened. He was shouting at her, but she was so distracted that she didn't hear a word he said. She gathered her key and managed to get it in the ignition, peeling out of the driveway like a bat out of hell.

When she was off the property and out of his view, she parked on the side of the road. The tears began to flow. Isabella rested her head against the steering wheel and cried until her well of tears ran dry.


	12. Gone, Baby, Gone

John turned off the car and got out in a flash, running up the Evans family driveway. When he reached the door, he began pounding. For the past month he had been trying to get in touch with Isabella, but she had surprised him by changing her number. It had been a hard month for John, finally coming to terms with Lisa's death and laying his guilt to rest. Now with Isabella cutting him out of her life, he found himself struggling with the familiar feelings of helplessness, depression and confusion. He was surprised at the void that Isabella's absence left in his life. He had come to depend on her friendship and her help as something of a crutch during his darkest days. He had become accustomed to the fact that she would always be around. He kept pounding, desperate, refusing to budge until somebody answered the door.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ruby answered the door. She was dressed in bright pink sweatpants and a white tank top, her brown hair tied back in a high ponytail. Her grey-green eyes were hardened and cold. "You have a lot of nerve showing up here," she told him angrily. "Haven't you and your friends done enough?"

"Ruby, I need to talk to Bella," John pleaded.

"She's not here," she told him angrily.

"Ruby, please…"

"John, I'm not lying to you," she told him, the anger in her voice deflating. "She's really not here. Nobody knows where she went." She sighed. "Haven't you watched the news recently?"

"No." He was being honest. When he had gotten out of rehab and made it to his mother's house, she was in full-on, overprotective mother mode. No newspapers, no news. Anything that could be seen as remotely depressing was banned from the house. She was so worried about something sending John off the handle. His brothers even went out of their way to monitor his computer use, though he didn't have much desire to use it outside of his email. As nice as it was to be with his family, John quickly grew tired of being treated like a child and cut the trip short.

"They found Trey a couple days after you left," Ruby told him. The look in her eyes told him that there was no happy ending. He took off his Boston Bruins ball cap and rubbed his forehead. "It took them forever, but they found him."

"Jesus. I'm so sorry," John sighed. He knew the words were empty, hollow. Although he didn't know what it was like for a parent to bury a child, John at least related to their feeling of loss. He knew words were cheap in situations like this. They didn't do anything to soothe the pain.

"Nobody's seen Izzie since the funeral. She was already upset, thanks to your little friend."

John sighed. "I know. I'm not even going to stand up for him. He's an asshole." John thought the terminology was being nice. They had a big, blow-up argument when John got home. He had been surprised by Randy at the airport. He was talking fast, a clear indicator that he had done something that he knew John wasn't going to be happy with. As it was, John was already irate to find that Randy had driven one of his collector's edition cars to pick him up.

When they got home, John had informed Randy that he had somebody to hold the fort down. Randy had been cold and despicable in the ways he referred to Isabella. John was enraged to find out Randy had gotten rid of her. It was the worst argument they had in all the years they had known each other. Randy accused John of leaning on Isabella because she looked like Lisa, calling him sick and delusional. But Randy had crossed the line when he accused Isabella of exploiting John. Enraged, John had punched Randy, his closed fist catching Randy in the jaw. That's when Randy left, murmuring something angry under his breath as he violently pushed his arms into the sleeves of his leather jacket. "I had nothing to do with that, Ruby, believe me. He acted alone."

"He threatened to make her life a living hell, John," she told him angrily. "She came home in tears. He threatened to arrest her and he made her hand over the keys you left for her."

"Do you have any idea where she could be?" he asked.

"I wish. Her parents need her. I shouldn't be here for them." John nodded. The situation felt so familiar, even though he wasn't the one directly involved. His heart ached for Isabella and her family. Before he left for rehab, he knew that something was going on with her brother, but she refused to talk about it, so he didn't bother to ask. He didn't think in a million years it would end badly, and he found himself beating himself up for being so naïve. Isabella, normally so grounded and mature, had snapped. She was dealing with way too much; school, work, worrying about friends, losing her brother. Something had to give.

"I'll try and find her," he assured her, though he didn't know where to look. He was also set to return to WWE in two weeks, so he knew his deadline was pretty small. John realized quickly that he didn't know all that much about Isabella, outside of the fact that she worked as a barista at Starbucks. He felt a pang of guilt, like he was a selfish bastard for never once asking her to tell him about herself. All he did in their friendship was take and take, but he never thought of her problems. Everyone has problems. He felt naïve and dumb for thinking she had no problems, that her life was nothing but roses and rainbows. "Tell them I'm sorry for their loss," he said, cocking his head. Ruby nodded, closing the door as John bolted to his car.

He climbed in and took off quickly, realizing fast that he had no idea where he was going. He pondered where she could be. "I've been such a lousy fucking friend," John said to himself angrily, coming to a stop at a red light. He was willing to find her, to show her that she had a friend that cared. It was the least he could do for her, for everything she had done for him. "I need to make things up to her. There's just no two ways about it. I have to find her."


End file.
